


A Man in Armour

by DoreyG



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Encouraged adultery, M/M, Uniform/military kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t tell anybody, but Montjoy has always had a thing for men in armour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man in Armour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the uniforms/military kink square on my Kink_Bingo card. Started ages ago (about a year, look at my fail) and completed today. Follows play canon more than historical canon, because Henry kept going off and doing WEIRD THINGS. I think that's it!

Don’t tell anybody, but Montjoy has always had a thing for men in armour.

It’s aesthetic, in part, the sight of those broad shoulders filling every tight nook and the dream of sliding his fingers over those noble crests. But it’s also purely lustful, in another way, with the tempting thought of those muscles that doubtlessly wait beneath and the musing of how cool metal would feel against his vulnerable thighs. And, in yet another way, it’s based on the promise – that curious mix of passion and mercy that soldiers are supposed to exhibit no matter the situation.

That curious mix that the English seem so very good at showing.

That curious mix that noble Henry, resplendent in his war garb with his wide shoulders standing out, seems entirely made of.

Montjoy thinks he must’ve been lost the moment he saw him in such a way.

“What is thy name?”

“Montjoy, my lord.”

…Or from then, either way. For Henry’s brown eyes are determined and Henry’s strong body looks like it could face so many things and Henry’s hips, when he allows his eyes to briefly dip, look made for fitting his legs around.

(He is not a young man, not a boy who is easily aroused every second of the waking day. But Montjoy is interested… Yes, certainly interested.)

 

\--

 

He is not some youngster easily caught by such things but he certainly feels _something_ when he sees the brave Henry, addressing his troops like more of a king than the Dauphin could ever be. He stands tall and proud, the rain glints on his armour as if even the natural order is trying to lend its support.

Montjoy cannot blame it.

Even as Henry sees him and steps over, cold and businesslike. There is little warmth in his face, little heat – just a cold determination that quite suits him and his marching step.

Montjoy appreciates it for only a second before he launches into his message ever so brisk, “once more I come to know of thee, King Harry-“

But the end he is assured, as assured as he has ever been.

King _Henry_ is a noble gentleman. A king, a knight and a temptation wrapped into one body. And Montjoy, although he lets not a word of this slip to his masters, feels thoroughly caught.

(Like a fish on a hook, though feeling far more pleasant about the matter.)

 

\--

 

And feels just as thoroughly caught down in the mud, pinned there with the fury of a king sparkling above him. He is afraid and sick and weary to the bone and feels like he could just sink and loiter below a while… But there is still that attraction, prickling softly underneath it all, still that link that he can’t quite avoid.

It’s is not lust, he could not abide lust upon this fated day.

But it is… Something. Something trembling and quiet, something that should’ve been beaten down by the suffering of these hours. But something that still flowers, like the most fragile bloom still standing on this field of bloody mud.

For a moment he half flatters himself that he sees the link returned, fluttering carefully in Harry’s eyes as he leans his equally splattered head towards him.

But then he says, ever so slowly, “the day is yours.”

And matters erupt into a celebration so fierce, so pleased that the moment is quite lost in it. In the jostle of gaiety, in the happiness that victory always brings to the victors.

(But there _was_ still a moment there, so fragile and frail. And perhaps he’ll cling to that moment tonight and perhaps he will not and perhaps he will be tempted by that moment later and perhaps he will not. But it was still most definitely _there_.)

 

\--

 

Henry wears victory well, almost as well as he wore that glinting armour that would’ve been so tempting against Montjoy’s bruised flesh. He sits with it around his shoulders like a cape, nobly demands things of the feeble king with a crown of distinction upon his noble head and flashes glances with his eyes like he knows his standing.

Flashes his eyes at Montjoy, as it happens.

Just brief glances, nothing to attract suspicion, but he notices them as he did upon the bloody ground of Agincourt. And he heeds them as he could not heed them upon such muddy soil. He is tempted, he is thoughtful, he wonders if brave Harry could be tempted back into his armour for a few moments of bliss.

…The thoughts of a youngster, as he asks them all to leave so he may court the fair, young Katharine, who was so neglected yet may finally learn a loving touch.

Such a marriage will be for political motives rather than lust, however, and that thought hangs with Montjoy as he trails behind the more noble members of his apparent homeland. Hangs with him and burns there, like a tempting firefly that cannot be grasped quite yet for risk of a burnt hand.

(Tempted? Of course he is tempted. He would grasp as fast as he could if it would not mean certain death and bubbling guilt. Something tells him to wait, something tells him to be timid… And so he shall heed that something. Heed it as he heeds the look in Henry’s flashing eyes.)

 

\--

 

He goes back to England with brave Henry in the end. He doubts that he was one of the conditions, the prices that the English laid so heavily on French heads, but he follows anyway. It is a clear choice between the spluttering Dauphin, the fool with his obsession for his nobly dead steed, and the handsome Henry, with the promise of armour on his fine form once again.

An easy choice, he is sure anybody would agree.

Even if he is shy in England, unsure of their manners even if he speaks their tongue perfectly. Even if he feels like an outsider for the first few months, as some sneer and some stare with such resentment in their eyes. Even if he sometimes doubts his reasons, and wonders if he would be of more use back in France next to the steadily failing king.

…Even then.

Katharine is kind and soon pregnant, Henry is wise and constantly handsome. He is not sure how to act just yet but he is sure that he will be, he is not sure when to move just yet but he is sure that one day he will do so. It is a matter of time, a matter of calm, a matter of keeping his nerve.

(And dreaming of Henry, glowing with a knightly light even amongst the blood and gore, shining with a princely attractiveness even when furious tears still glittered within his eyes, flashing a kind of promise even when guts should’ve been spilled across the floor.)

 

\--

 

His nerve is rewarded one day when Katharine stops him as he’s leaving the dining hall. Drags him to a corner with her hand shielding her just visible belly and her eyes swiftly glancing around. Montjoy doubts that she fears her king, he has always been kind to her, but he knows what gossip can do to a good woman – knows that the loud men who surround the king would happily kill for him if they ever believed him threatened.

It is a thought that sends him glancing too. Sends him glancing until Katharine’s firm hand settles on his arm and he is drawn slowly back to her calm words, “do you want him?”

…Slowly back with only stunned silence leaving his lips.

They stare at each other for a second, one flat and one alarmed in this cultured corridor of stone where any servant could shuffle by without warning or discretion.

“Speak.”

He stutters in a breath, debates it for half a second… “Y-yes, my lady.”

And is surprised when the smile breaks over her face. The smug smile, the knowing smile – the sort of smile that almost speaks of plans, just as potent as those of a soldier but carried out on a different stage with neater actors in all the roles, “you will go to him.”

…Montjoy feels like he is to play the role of the blinking fool in every production.

“I am with child and he has desires,” Katharine explains, with calm eyes that are almost amused in their intensity, “has had desires since before I was with child, if I am to be honest.”

He hesitates for another second.

“Go!”

…He goes. For an order is an order and temptation is already coiling in his gut. It feels happy there, almost as happy as the thought of Henry dressed in soldiering garb and ready for a victory that’d shatter all that’d gone before it.

(Let temptation rise, let hopes be known, let desires be revealed by the light of a hopeful flame – he is ready for this, has been ready for some time. He wonders how Henry’s strong arms will feel under his fingers, he wonders if any would be jealous and almost laughs at the thought, he wonders… He _wonders_ , over so many things that they almost steal the breath from his lungs.)

 

\--

 

Henry’s chambers are dark when he slips in, quiet. No candles are lit, no servants clatter. Indeed: the _only_ light is the steady glint of a half full moon through a window, the _only_ sounds are the soft noises of birds outside. It’d almost be terrifying-

…But, then, he could never be terrified in the presence of his Henry.

He takes on step in, another. Desperately hopes that he isn’t about to go flying over some chair in a less than elegant announcement “…My lord?”

There’s a rustle, and nothing more than that.

“Your highness…?”

Another rustle, the faint sound of footsteps. It’s like the king, his king, is waiting for something. Some subtle signal to summon him from the dark where he’s doubtlessly lurking.

…And he has an idea of that signal, though it may well kill him.

He takes in a deep breath, wipes his sweaty hands upon his tunic – then clenches his fingers behind his back before they can betray him by shaking “…Henry?”

And it is that, most certainly that. For Henry ambles out of the shadows with a smile – hair as gorgeously brown as ever, eyes as charmingly flashing, posture slightly nervous in a way that only a man of his training could possibly pick up…

Body enclosed in armour.

Oh.

“Sweet herald,” Henry smiles, not seeming to mind his gaping (gawking, drooling if he is going to be perfectly honest with himself), “I trust that my wife has told you of my desires?”

He makes a choked noise.

“…Herald?”

“Yes!” He starts up! Blushing just slightly, for he really can’t be blamed when Henry looks like _that_ \- so stunningly gorgeous, so utterly distracting that it is a wonder more people don’t fall over when in his presence, “I mean: yes, queen Katherine did mention some things, my lord.”

“And I thought I’d got you calling me Henry there,” Henry only… Ah, _purrs_. Saunters another step closer with his armour glinting in the moonlight, “what things did she mention?”

“Well…”

Henry smiles, and immediately he would do anything for it, “please?”

“…She said that she was with child and that you had desires,” he says, still a little fixed upon that curve of Henry’s lips, “but also that you’d had desires before she was with child.”

“Yes,” Henry nods, it is an encouraging gesture if he’s ever seen one, “since the first time I saw you… Well, that is a romantic sort of fiction commonly believed by my ancestors. But there was definitely lust that first time – and more followed quickly on its heels.”

…More?

More, right. He goes through a rough few swear words, none appropriate for use before a king, before he splutters the first coherent thing that comes into his head, “really?”

And Henry’s eyes glitter, “you need proof?”

“Well…”

And, within seemingly _seconds_ , Henry is striding across the room and taking him into his arms. The kiss is hot, deep, _perfect_ in a way that encourages him to return it with full force – to surge up against Henry so hard that he can feel the cold (perfect) chill of armour right the way through the cloth of his tunic.

They draw back only reluctantly, after a fair few minutes.

“Oh, alright,” he says, and knows very well that his lips are slightly bruised and probably still glistening, “you want me, a poor herald from France… I am relieved, but I really _must_ doubt your taste.”

Henry only laughs, keeps holding him – the chill of armour now becoming faintly _distracting_ outside of the carnal pleasures, “you sell yourself down, my noble Louis, any would be blessed to have you… Even if that metaphorical ‘any’ would have to face my barely concealed jealousy.”

“That poor ‘any’, he or she is very fortunate that nothing of the sort will be provoked,” he chuckles in reply. Shifts closer, because the armour may be distracting but it is hardly a _bad_ sort of distraction “…It really is more too, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Henry admits, smiling just softly (the smile of a man in… Oh, _oh_. So this is what people write poetry about).

“Which is why you learned my name, and remembered it afterwards,” he continues equally softly, reaching up an awestruck hand to trace the lines of Henry’s face (the long nose, the high cheekbones, the charming scar that he wants to run lips and tongue and teeth over) “…And maybe why you wore the armour today?”

He is braced for confused rejection there-

But instead he only receives a smile, a brief peck pressed to his cheek as if he’s just noticed something important (something that Henry was proud of), “I’ve seen the look in your eyes every time I wear it, no matter how well you hide it from others. I wanted to make our first time as easy as possible for you.”

He just has to _beam_ in return, so happy that he can almost feel tears springing to the edges of his eyes, “oh, Henry, I would bed you even if you were naked and covered with all the mud in the world.”

And they smile together for a second, so close that the rest of the world could just fade away and leave them be…

Until Henry grins, wide and mischievous and like the twenty nine year old he _actually is_ , “I’ll just go and get like that now, shall I?”

“Ah,” he grabs Henry’s arms, tugs him back with a firm eyebrow, “no. If you’ve already made the effort it’s best to take advantage of it, hm?”

Henry laughs again, young and free, “you want me to stay in my armour?”

He… Nods quite enthusiastically, yes.

“I hoped you’d say that, even if it _will_ prove a nightmare for the cleaners,” Henry _smirks_ , draws him close enough for their bodies to be _properly_ pressed together. From chest right down to… _Oh_ , he tilts his head slightly back and groans through his teeth, “will you keep your pretty armour on, though, my Louis?”

He slides his eyes open a sliver, mildly annoyed “…There’s no need to be _sarcastic_ about it.”

And Henry’s laugh this time is practically a _cackle_.

In no time at all, or at least it _feels_ like no time at all with Henry’s hands on him and Henry’s breath warm in his ear, he is divested of all his clothes. His new hat knocked firmly from his hair and into some uncared about corner, His collar undone with rough fingers at his neck that have groans bubbling up from somewhere deep, his tunic pulled up over his head so fast that he half splutters at it before Henry kisses him in apology, his shirt struggled out of with a speed that’d put the Dauphin’s best horse to shame, His shoes awkwardly kicked off, his hose practically ripped from his legs, all the finicky little buttons and underclothes untangled from him until…

Henry draws back, holds him by his naked shoulders and sends one appreciative glance sweeping down his body, “beautiful.”

…He’s already hard, “bed now.”

The bed is only a short stumble away, thank the lord, vast and grand and so very welcoming… Which is a good thing, really, considering the speed with which he finds himself on it: almost immediately, before having more than a few moments to appreciate (though who cares about _that_ when imminent sex is likely?) – he is on his back and Henry is above him, resplendently flushed.

“Henry…” He pleads, chokingly.

And Henry, bless his king, responds instantly. Lowers himself so they are pressed together – cold armour against every single part of him. His chest, his waist, his thighs…

He indulges a long held dream, awkwardly slips his legs out from underneath and wraps them around Henry’s cold hips.

_Mm_.

And suddenly they are rolling together. So sweetly, so perfectly, that he can barely believe that they only started this night (didn’t immediately leap at each other the moment they met, start rutting desperately in some side chamber with the rest of the court waiting awkwardly outside). Henry lays a mixture of soft kisses and sweet bites to his neck, he responds by laying sloppy presses of his lips wherever he can reach. Henry presses firmly down against his groin, he responds by grinding himself up against that glorious cool. Henry whispers words of love into his ear whenever his thrusts take him up…

He responds with a strangled declaration, and _screams_ the man’s name as he comes – slamming his head right back into the pillow.

There is a happy, warm moment.

…It takes him that long to blissfully realize that Henry is still pressing slightly frantic kisses against his neck, muttering how beautiful and wonderful and perfect he is like he simply can’t stop.

And, well.

_Well_ , he has always been fond of reciprocation. And so he slides his legs away, gently flips them over and slides down Henry’s still armoured body – mercifully reaching for the catches as his king whimpers such heated thanks from above.

(It’s worth it, after all. And he’s willing to tell anybody as he bends his head happily down.)


End file.
